


Captured

by russianwinter013



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Explicit Gore, Horror, Masochism, Multi, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Revenge, Sadism, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/russianwinter013/pseuds/russianwinter013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Autobots manage to capture Deathstrike, but will the be prepared for the horrors the mysterious Decepticon brings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strange Introductions and Encounters

**Author's Note:**

> This short story ties in with all of my stories that feature my OC, Deathstrike. He is the main character of Better Left Unsaid (one of my stories on FanFiction), and one of the main characters of my other story Trapped, and some others I'm working on. 
> 
> Deathstrike is mates with Breakdown, and in my universe, he replaces Knock Out. In broader terms, he is what I wish Knock Out would act like sometimes. But then, if that happened...Prime wouldn't be a kid-friendly TV show.

Arcee approached the 'Con, who was still being held captive in the brig. As she approached, he sensed her coming and hissed, his wings straining against their restraints. In their cuffs, his long and viciously sharp claws flexed menacingly. The femme warrior scowled, pointedly ignoring the dark mech.

How he was able to move at all in the stasis cuffs, she didn't know. But the thing that made her so agitated around him wasn't the fact that he could move in stasis cuffs. It was his strangeness. How was a Cybertronian so much like an animal, so feral and violent? This Decepticon, designated Deathstrike, was one of the strangest and most disturbing 'Cons she had ever met. She didn't know a thing about his past - there were rumors spread about the assassin during the Great War, things that kept even the strongest of warriors glancing over their shoulder panels in the dark - except that he had brutally slain Wheeljack's brother.

"Enough," she ordered as she shut the door behind her. "You're not an animal."

He narrowed his optics, two molten pools of crimson burning out of an endless dark. "How would you know?"

She glared back, still put off by his voice. He had a strange accent; it was unnatural, and something a bot wouldn't want to hear in the dark. 

"You're not," she stated sharply, crossing her servos. "I have some questions I need you to answer."

A low growl rumbled through his lean and powerful chassis as he leaned back against the metal wall behind him and narrowed his optics. "Need?"

"Let me rephrase that." Arcee moved closer, glaring directly at him despite the fact that he was more than twice her size and loomed over her even though he was sitting. "You will answer my questions. You have not choice, seeing as though you're our prisoner and at our mercy."

Deathstrike scoffed at her words and flared his armor with a ripple. "I would do this for what reason?"

Her optics narrowed, burning in a cold mischievousness as the faintest traces of a smirk curled back her mouthplates. "I could bring in Wheeljack and have him question you, if you would like that better."

"I have been through things that would make even your precious Prime tremble in his armor. Wheeljack cannot harm me." His accent thickened suddenly, making her even more curious. She had heard plenty of accents from a variety of places—Praxus, Simfur, Kalis, Kaon, Iacon, and even the Towers—but his was unique.

"It confuses you, does it not?" His deep voice startled her from her thoughts.

"What?" she snapped brusquely, winglets flaring high above her.

"It startles you." At her look of annoyed confusion, he snarled quietly. "My accent."

"You're a telepath?" As if he didn't have enough strange abilities.

"Believe it if you will—" He cut off abruptly, turning and pressing against the wall behind him as a bout of violent coughing wracked his lean frame. Arcee could see the Energon he brought up and made a mental note to tell Ratchet. Deathstrike was too valuable a prisoner to die in the brigs—that, and they couldn't have him passing out their interrogation. She waited until he was finished to continue.

"Why did you do it?" She was surprised at how gentle her voice sounded. This was the mech who had brutally terminated Wheeljack's brother and  _enjoyed_ it.

Deathstrike shuttered his optics, his claw flexing once more. After a moment, he opened them and did not meet her optics. "I was different back then," the strange mech murmured as he rose and seated himself on the outstretched berth bolted against the wall. "Things have changed." His wings strained against their restraints, and they creaked ominously. If he was strong enough to break his bonds, they would have to make new ones. Not even Starscream was that strong.

"Different how?" she pressed, leaning forward as if for emphasis.

He looked up at her and she resisted from internally shuddering. His optics would always unnerve her; they were completely black, save for dark red rings serving as pupils. They were cold and held no emotion, and in the dim lighting of the room they blazed hellishly. 

The two stared at each other for a moment, and the silence was broken by the creaking of his wings pushing against his clamps.

"Stop doing that," the warrior growled, optics narrowing. The noise was driving her insane, and it also revealed that the Seeker was closer every second to snapping the restraints.

Deathstrike snarled, a truly dark and demented sound, and shook his helm. The light caught on the metal of his fangs as he scowled. "My wings move of their own accord, I have not truly flown for centuries, and I do not do well in confined spaces." His voice became raspy as a violent shudder ran through his chassis, and as another fit hit him, Arcee thought about his words. She knew and had known many Seekers, and she knew that many would go stir-crazy if they hadn't flown for a few days, let alone centuries. Maybe it explained his insanity.

"Ratchet." She contacted the medic as she exited the brig. "The captive is either bleeding internally or is severely ill. He's coughing up a lot of Energon."

 _"If he was bleeding internally, he could choke on or cough up Energon, but it would depend on the amount expelled as well as the thickness and rate it was expelled. But I can't tell how you would know this, but—"_ The Autobot CMO cut off from his voiced musings, realization hitting him. _"Arcee, you didn't go in there **alone** , did you? Deathstrike is far too dangerous for you to be alone with him."_

"Relax, Ratchet. He didn't do anything and I wouldn't have let him if he tried."

 _"As stubborn as always, you are."_ His gruff voice softened a bit, but still held its familiar severity and harshness. The line disconnected as she entered med-bay.

"He's a creepy one, isn't he?" Smokescreen said, watching the femme as she entered. A curious glint sparked in his optics, and it was obvious that he wanted to know more about their captive.

"One of the creepiest," Bulkhead agreed. "The 'Con's best assassin, rumored to be a Servant of the Unmaker himself. He's known for his insanity, and how beastly he is."

"That's probably what he wants others to think," Arcee retorted. "He didn't seem insane to me, unless his sickness hides it."

"He's sick?" Smokescreen questioned, his doorwings flicking the air. "He wasn't when we captured him. He was more…resistant than sick."

"You mean when Optimus shot him repeatedly," Ratchet added, glancing over his shoulder panel. He now had more work to do and was not pleased when the others had told him of the way the Prime had taken him down. They needed a healthy prisoner, not one who was coughing up their own life-blood.

"If he hadn't, Deathstrike would have killed us all," Arcee snapped. "He has a knack for it, and seems to have a grudge against all of us."

"Well, we're not exactly the best of bots anyway," Smokescreen muttered. When all of them turned to glare at him, he raised his servos and backed away, his doorwings flattening against the small of his backstrut. "I'm just saying—we are."

* * *

 

"Ratchet." The Prime entered, his baritone voice rumbling like thunder and his steps shaking the ground.

The medic didn't turn, but looked over his shoulder panel. "Yes?" "I have heard the others speaking about the fact that our prisoner may be unwell."

"I'm not so sure yet. I have much to do and have yet to visit him. Arcee says he was coughing up Energon."

"Investigate the problem." When Ratchet turned to glare in disbelief, the Prime's gaze hardened, but glowed with the familiarity and warmth of an old friendship. "The computers will not vanish, and I will be sure that Bulkhead will not break your tools." 

Ratchet muttered beneath his ventilations as he took a few medical tools and subspaced them. "Fine, I'm going."

 _Be careful, old friend._ The Prime watched the medic disappear down the darkened corridor.  _Our enemy will not hesitate to rip out your spark._


	2. Looming

Ratchet moved down the hallway towards the brig. He had medical supplies stored in his subspace, in case their captive's injuries were too severe to be delayed repair. As he approached, he wondered about Deathstrike's supposed insanity. He was considered beastly and insane on the battlefield; he had repaired gruesome wounds caused by his accuracy and had heard horrific stories about how the Deception assassin would suddenly become feral, snarling and snapping with the ferocity of a mad Predacon.

The brig was dark when he entered. There was more than one cell, the biggest and farthest from the door being Deathstrike's. Had he not been a Seeker—they were known for becoming stir-crazy if they were confined too long—he would have had a smaller cell. At the moment, the Decepticon was sitting on a lounge berth, his side to the door. His helm was bowed and his wings were raised high and straining, the ominous creaking reminding him of Arcee's story. There were faint traces of Energon in the nearby waste bin, and the medic narrowed his optics unconsciously, searching for a reason on why there was expelled Energon.

"What have you come to bother me about now?" The Con's voice was deep, nearly as low as Optimus', and was tinted with a strange accent, maybe even a hybrid one.

"I've been told you were ill."

"You believe I cannot repair myself?" He turned his helm slightly, optics narrow and filled with irritation and exhaustion. "I am the Decepticon medic."

Shock hit the Autobot like a physical attack. "You're the Decepticon medic?"

"That is what I said." His wings creaked, and the faint groan that came from the restraints worried the medic only slightly. The one he was speaking to was a Decepticon, after all.

"You are known for your occupation as an assassin." The Autobot crossed his servos.

A growl came from the other. "Fear is an essential factor in the Decepticon ranks."

"You Decepticons and your ridiculous philosophies."

The Decepticon faced him completely and his cold, black optics pierced him to the core. He was scowling, and the glint of light on metal exposed his fangs. "You Autobots and your inconsequential heroics."

"Enough with the distractions," Ratchet snapped. "Why are you ill? You fought the others perfectly fine earlier and now you're coughing up your own life-blood. Why?"

 Deathstrike's wing restraints creaked. "It is a condition I have," he began. Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, and suddenly the Decepticon was dangerously close. "And I do not wish to speak about it."

The CMO scowled, not at all put off by the other's close presence but taking note of Deathstrike's well-shown irritation. "Then how am I to help you?"

Deathstrike snarled. "I do not require your help. Have your teammates let me rest." He turned and headed back to his seat on the berth.

 Ratchet scoffed, but could not help but notice the strong limp the other had in his leg. "You know I can't do that."

The Decepticon turned to look at him, and the Autobot was surprised. Were his optics flickering with their last light? Was he really dying? He ran a scan of the Decepticon's vitals. They were dangerously low and rapidly deteriorating.

"You are dying and refusing help?" His voice sounded even more incredulous then he felt.

Deathstrike didn't answer. A violent shudder racked his frame, and he grasped the berth for support as his body tipped slightly, his claws tearing deep slashes in the refined metal as his wing restraints creaked and protested at the movement. His helm was bowed and his optics seemingly shuttered. His intakes rattled within his chassis, hoarse and uneven. It only made the medic worry even more. 

"Deathstrike?"

 The assassin shook his helm, his claws digging into his berth. Ratchet was at a loss on what to do. He could go in and try to help, but that would most likely end in Deathstrike lashing out or killing him. He could leave him and inform the others of his worsening condition, but if the entire group of Autobots poured into a room with an insane and sick Decepticon assassin, it would not end well.

 Finally, he made up his mind.

The Autobot took a tentative step forward.

The Decepticon sensed the movement and snarled, glaring at the Autobot. Ratchet raised his servos, somewhat surprised at the sudden ferocity of the other. He could see the cracks forming on Deathstrike's wing clamps, and made a mental note to build stronger ones; he was aware that the said strong ones in their possession were currently on the enraged Decepticon before him.

"Deathstrike, what is wrong?" Despite the assassin's obvious resistance and fury, his medical instincts still kicked in and forced him to make sure his patient was well—or as well as one could be while coughing up their own life-blood.

The other did not respond, his optics narrowing to dangerous slits as he tracked the Autobot's moves. Was this the insane Decepticon everyone was worrying about—or was it something else?

Ratchet had seen these symptoms before, in two of his old teammates, though their locations were unknown as of present. It had been the result of an outbreak, millennia ago, and to this day they were still coping.

 It was obvious the same thing had happened to Deathstrike.

And it only made him more dangerous.

* * *

The Autobots turned as Ratchet entered the med-bay. A look of black anger was on his faceplate, as well as the minutest traces of worry and fear.

"Ratchet, what is it?" Arcee approached the obviously raging Autobot.

"Stay out of the brig," was all he said.

 "Why? What happened?" Smokescreen demanded, his optics shining and doorwings twitching in excitement. "Is he loose?"

The medic whirled on him, his armor flared. "Don't be a fool, Smokescreen! If he was loose, would I be alive?"

The Praxian took a step back, his doorwings twitching and showing his obvious alarm.

"Whoa, take it easy, Ratch. He didn't mean anything," Bulkhead insisted, staring back when the CMO's fiery glare turned on him.

"Ratchet." Optimus' voice sounded, and he appeared with silence belying his mass. "Is something wrong?" 

"Optimus." The Autobot looked up at him, and the Prime could read the look in his gaze—he was worried and frightened. "May I speak with you," he began, glancing at the others, who were watching curiously, "Alone?" 

The Prime dipped his helm with a quiet, "Of course," and led the medic to the clearing on the cliff.

* * *

"What troubles you so, old friend?" The massive Prime watched the medic pace the length of the cliff.

"It is Deathstrike."

"Deathstrike worries many. It is in his nature." 

"He does not make you worry unless you're on his strike list. He uses fear as a weapon."

"As does Megatron."

 The medic glanced at his leader. His pacing slowed and stopped, his cerulean gaze fixed on some lone object, clouded with the hazy look of one lost in their thoughts.

"Do you recall our two comrades Prowl and Jazz?"

 Optimus nodded. "I do, but I fail to see the relevance of them to our captive."

"The outbreak."

Optimus paused for a moment, his thoughts going back to the incident. "Deathstrike is one of them." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Yes. That is why we must stay out of the brig."

"No. If Deathstrike is one of the Changed, we both know he is strong enough to break out of the brig."

"Well, we can't just let him roam and refuel off of us," the medic scoffed.

"Nevertheless, should he regain enough strength to break from his containment, it would be catastrophic."

 "How will we let him refuel? We sure as Primus won't let him feed off of us or give him any rations from our already limited stores."

"We do not." Ratchet narrowed his optics ever so slightly, and the Prime raised a hand before he could object. "Deathstrike would be tempted, should we allow him any options of refueling. We will wait and he will come out of his homicidal tendencies." The massive Prime headed to the door.

 "How can you be so sure?"

 Optimus stopped in his tracks, turning his helm to fix his gaze on the medic. "He has no choice." The Prime's voice was grave and held the slightest hint of restrained anger. "Should he break free, or show any means of harming my team, I will not hesitate to use whatever force is necessary."

"He will not hesitate in retaliating should he feel threatened." The medic met the Prime's gaze with defiance. "Optimus, with all due respect, he is my patient. I am seeing to his wellbeing, and being threatened by anyone—let alone a massive Prime like you, the ruler of his enemies—will be detrimental to his health."

Optimus considered the CMO's words. "Very well. Keep my warning in mind, but do what you must to heal him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the outbreak mentioned was a viral contagion that was unleashed during the Golden Age in a Circuit Su and Cyberninja training facility. Little was done to contain it, for it had happened in the slums of Kaon near the Pits, and every being in the dojo was infected with an incurable virus that overwhelmed them with a vampire-like rage. Only the strongest of will survived and were able to control the rage while others drove themselves made and even attempted to terminate the wrong bots. Deathstrike is one of the infected (one of the first and possibly the most powerful) and while he has most control over his "second personality" he is known to let it take over on the battlefield as a tactical advantage, hence Ratchet's memories of the stories of Deathstrike's supposed insanity.


	3. Revelation

He vented, long and deep, his optics shuttered and chassis motionless. It hadn't resurfaced yet, but he knew the signs—insatiable hunger, dark rage, and black insanity.

  _Keep your hold. Do not lose control._

 Attacking the Autobot medic would not fare well for him, despite his ability to defend himself against any assailant. The Autobots would deem him a force that could not be controlled, and would either—at least, from his experiences—imprison him for a long time or execute him. The medic was capable of defending himself to an extent; he recalled the Synth-En incident he had heard the Vehicons prattling about. Had he had more energy—medics tended to be running on fumes in order to get their patients' ailments in order—his massive knowledge of the Cybertronian body would prove to be a great leverage on the Autobots' side of the battlefield.

_Keep your hold. Do not lose control._

The mantra helped little; the fire still tore through him. Gritting his dentia, his hands clenched into fists and he shook his helm. The tremors started again, only increasing the pain.

  _No. You cannot afford such troubles right now. Fight it. Control._

The tremors died down somewhat, and he was able to relax.

 But not for long.

* * *

Wheeljack crawled out from under his ship, chassis and servos stained with coolant and oil. He wiped them off on a rag stored in his subspace, entering the med bay deep in his thoughts. He made a beeline for Ratchet, who was speaking with Optimus about another Ground Bridge malfunction.

 "Ratchet." He stopped near the two, servos crossed and jaw clenched. "Can I have a word with you?"

 The medic turned, stopping in the middle of whatever he had said to Optimus. His cerulean optics narrowed slightly at the mech's sudden politeness, and silence screamed until he addressed the Prime towering over them. "Excuse me for a moment, would you, Optimus?"

The massive mech nodded, rumbling, "Of course."

* * *

"Spit it out."

 "Spit what out?"

 "You are never this polite. What do you want?"

Wheeljack grinned. "Come on, Doc, you know—"

 "Wheeljack." Ratchet crossed his servos and glared.

The Wrecker vented. "Fine. I want to speak to Deathstrike."

Ratchet shook his helm. "You know Optimus will not allow that."

Wheeljack raised his servos. "I ain't lookin' to off him, Ratch, I just want to ask a few questions."

 "As to why he killed your brother?" Ratchet growled, showing a sudden anger as his armor flared. "Wheeljack, Deathstrike is insane. There is the smallest shred of logic in his processor, if there is any at all. He is an assassin, one that gets the job done and shrugs it off as if nothing happened."

 "Don't you think I know that?" Wheeljack shot back, fire glinting in his optics. "Seriously, why can't I have an honest conversation with someone without them thinking I want to hurt them?"

"Because we know you," the Autobot CMO snapped. "You went to have a conversation with Dreadwing, and ended up having your teammate—your partner, for Primus' sake—almost blown to pieces."

 "That was then. This is now," the Wrecker retorted. "I swear to Primus, Ratchet, I will not kill him."

The medic stared at him through narrow optics, suspicion clear in his gaze. Wheeljack held the stare defiantly.

Ratchet vented. "Very well. I'll be watching you on the cameras. Wheeljack, should you try anything—" 

"Yeah, yeah." The Wrecker was already gone.

* * *

The brig was dark and cool when he entered. Activating his headlights, he headed to the 'Con's cell.

The Seeker was sitting in the corner of his containment, his back to the cell's bars. His wings fanned the air, and if one looked close enough, the faint tremors shaking his chassis could be seen.

All the same, Deathstrike still sensed his presence and growled, "What do you want, Wheeljack?" 

The Wrecker barked out a laugh. "What I want could be many things. Revenge, a fight, explanations." He crossed his servos, glaring at the other mech's wings.

Deathstrike laughed slightly until it turned into a harsh cough.

Wheeljack narrowed his optics. "You sick, 'Con?"

"I hardly see how you would concern yourself with my wellbeing," the other hissed in a slightly hoarse voice.

 "Don't ya know how valuable you are?" the Wrecker retorted, a slight bite in his voice.

 At this, Deathstrike turned, his black optics narrow, and rose from his seat on the floor. Heading over to the Autobot with menace in his limped stride, he bared his fangs. "If you have come only to reprimand me for my actions, I advise you to leave before I find a way to break free from this pathetic excuse for a prison and rip out your spark in the most painful way possible."

 Wheeljack scoffed, crossing his servos and glaring. "You and I both know that if you were able to break out, you would have done so by now."

The 'Con bared his lengthening dentia, his optics blazing, as he looked ready to solidify his statement by subjecting the impertinent Wrecker before him to the most excruciating mental scan he could think of. His telepathy was no secret to the white Autobot. Wheeljack tensed, ready for attack. He stared in surprise as the Decepticon leaned back against the wall and _laughed_. It was not a chuckle or the rasping growl he was used to; it was a full, deep, powerful laugh that pierced his very spark.

"You have not changed one bit." Deathstrike stared at him, his optics burning. He leaned against his uninjured leg, using the wall near him for support. Despite his weakened state, Wheeljack found that the Decepticon assassin still radiated the same black storm of apathy and fury.

"You haven't either, murderer," Wheeljack growled, armor flaring from his frame.

"You are complimenting me? I am touched." Deathstrike grinned; it was a horrible thing that the Wrecker hoped he never saw again.

 "You know why I'm here." He crossed his servos, narrowing his optics.

"Yes, I do." The Decepticon balked suddenly, turning and going into a violent coughing fit.

Wheeljack smirked at seeing his enemy felled by a mere virus. Deathstrike, one of the most powerful and feared 'Cons in history, locked in a cell and infected with a virus that made him bring up his own lifeblood. It was almost amusing, though he could not figure out what that nagging sensation in the back of his processor was...there was something...wrong...

 "You are certain?"

The Autobot snapped from his thoughts, his fierce, icy optics fixing on the assassin, who had his fiery optics fixed on him.

"Do I look like I'm not?" the Wrecker snarled, grating his dentia together as his servos clenched into fists. "I'm not playing any games, 'Con. I want to know the truth. Why did you kill Perceptor?" 

Deathstrike snarled, his wings flaring. "You are absolutely certain that you wish to know?"

Wheeljack bristled. "By the Allspark, Deathstrike, if you ask me that one more time—"

The Decepticon bared his fangs in that terrifying, sadistic grin of his. "Come closer. We cannot have the others hearing."

"Scared, 'Con?" Wheeljack scowled but did as told.

"Hardly." Deathstrike grit his dentia as his chassis shuddered violently, his armor flaring, making the Wrecker hesitate ever so slightly.

"You want to know why I killed your brother?" His voice was a menacing hiss, his accent strongly pronounced.

Wheeljack nodded, audios tuned to pick up every word the Decepticon was murmuring.

Deathstrike laughed lowly, a dark sound of sadistic mirth and intention. Before Wheeljack could figure out what he was so pleased about, he felt a sharp, stinging pain in his lower abdomen. Looking down, he saw the assassin's long razor claws imbedded deep into his armor. He could feel them tearing through vital internal organs as he twisted them inside of the other, his black optics burning with a fire straight from the pit. He watched as the assassin brought his digits to his mouth; feeling the hot Energon pour from the massive wound, he stared as the other licked the lifeblood from his claws, his optics burning a path into his mind.

The last words he heard before blacking out were:

_"Ask him when you have joined the Well."_


	4. Dark Horror

"Arcee, have you seen Wheeljack?" 

The small femme warrior glanced up from her work station, where the medic currently before her had asked—more like demanded— that she do something useful with her life by examining the medical journals in his possession.

Arcee vented heavily, rolling her neck on her shoulders. "Nope. Sorry." She peered up at Ratchet. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"He left joors ago and has not contacted me." The medic scowled, his armor flaring ever so slightly.

"Ease up, Ratch. He's probably working on his ship." The blue femme stood. "I can help look for him, if you want."

 "No, I'm sure I can find him on my own."

He could not help but smirk internally at the somewhat disappointed look that flashed over Arcee's features.

... ... ... ...

The brig was dark and cooler than it had been the last time he had entered. His ventilations crystallized in the air, and his pedesteps reverberated throughout the room.

"Wheeljack?" 

There was no response.

"Wheeljack!" Ratchet neared the end of the containment center, where the cell belonging to Deathstrike was. His scanners were set at their highest frequency, yet he could not sense the spark signals or signatures of Wheeljack or Deathstrike.

Something flashed in the corner of his vision, and the red and white mech whipped around, surgical blades extended.

There was nothing there.

_Calm down, Ratchet. You have nothing to fear. You can handle this._

A dark chuckle sounded behind him, and he turned towards the area where it had come from only to be met with more darkness.

He stopped and turned towards the Decepticon assassin's cell.

The door was wide open, and there was no one inside.

_Scrap_. Ratchet felt his defense protocols initiate as his senses remained on high alert. He knew that he was dealing with one of the most feared and dangerous Decepticons in Cybertronian history, and knew to tread lightly. Yet that precaution was almost immediately snuffed when he realized that Wheeljack was in danger and had most likely been attacked.

The laugh sounded again, deep and dark as it echoed throughout the room and in the medic's helm.

"Deathstrike, I know you are in here. Where is Wheeljack?"

Something moved in the corner of his peripheral vision, yet Ratchet knew it was pointless to even try and locate the strange assassin. 

_My dear Ratchet…_

The words echoed in his helm, adding to the sense of uneasiness that was beginning to plague him. He remained silent for a moment as he sorted his jumbled thoughts out. 

"Deathstrike, you do realize that Optimus is here, don't you? What will stop me from contacting him?"

A vicious snarl sounded and a cold wind blew past the medic, who flared his armor against the force of the unnatural gale.

_We both know that is not the best idea._ The Decepticon's voice was low and hissing, an almost demented sort of amusement audible in that statement. 

Ratchet narrowed his optics as the overwhelming scent of freshly spilled Energon filled his olfactories. Yes, he now knew that Wheeljack was injured, and that Deathstrike was somewhere in the brig waiting for him and the right moment to strike.

"What did you do with Wheeljack?"

The presence near him, in the form of a towering black shadow, moved closer. The scent of Energon grew stronger as the strange wind roared. 

_Mmm…would you like to see for yourself?_

The lights came on, and the sight was horrific.

Wheeljack lay unconscious on the cold metal floor. His armor was torn and shredded to the point of near nonexistence. Gashes, eerily similar to enormous claw marks, lined his frame and gaped like horrid mouths as Energon poured from the gruesome wounds. The Wrecker's icy optics were dark and his helm hung limply to the side. The refined metal of his extended battle mask was torn and sparks shot from the torn wires and circuitry that was a result of the mask being forcefully torn away. His left pede seemed to be twisted and crushed beyond repair, and the armor covering his right leg was shredded more than the armor on his chest. Energon formed a pool around him, and it was growing slowly and steadily, enough to worry the medic.

"Deathstrike! Do you know what this means? You must have no idea what the Autobots are capable of now that you have decided to attack one of our teammates!" Ratchet's voice boomed with more authority and confidence than he held internally. The sight of his teammate lying in a pool of his own Energon was one of the most horrific things he had ever seen, despite the war wounds he had treated over the course of the past few centuries.

_Your team cannot harm me if they cannot find me._ Sick and twisted amusement came from the assassin's voice, enough to make Ratchet's spark sink and twist in disgust and horror. The assassin gave the impression that he believed this was a game, a form of terrifying amusement. He gave the impression of being so amused that he was acting like a sparkling hiding from its creators.

"You cannot mask your spark signature for long. You will need your energy soon enough, and when we find you futilely attempting to recollect the little strength you have, you will regret ever allowing yourself to get captured." 

That demented, growling laugh sounded again, enough to send chills down Ratchet's spinal components. I know you cannot catch me. _If my own faction is terrified of me even looking at them, what chance do you stand against me?_

Ratchet vented in irritation, resisting the urge to roll his optics. "We can and we will take you down."

Deathstrike snarled viciously, but other than that it remained eerily silent. Ratchet circled the room warily, sensors tuned to a high frequency that he knew would give him a processor ache later, though he found he actually cared little about it at the moment.

"Deathstrike, my warning still stands. I can contact Optimus, and if you continue to hide in the shadows like the monster you are, I will." 

There was no response. Had he left? No, it did not seem -

A brutal force slammed into the medic's back, enough to make him keel over in shock but not in pain. His processor began to swim from the shock, and he forcefully stowed it away. _Focus, Ratchet. Focus._  

A vicious snarl sounded, feral and insane, above him. A shadow fell over him, and he turned to look.

 Deathstrike stood there, looming in all of his terrifying fury and insanity, glaring down at him. His sleek black armor was covered in Energon, as well as his extended claws and fangs. His wings flared wide behind him, the shattered remains of the bindings that had been his restraints hanging uselessly. Despite his overall horrifying appearance, his optics were the most terrifying thing about him. Blazing insanely bright, those black and red optics were filled with sadistic amusement, insanity, and feral hunger. The scowl on his faceplates exposed his fangs, fangs that were dripping with Wheeljack's Energon.

The assassin leaned close, engines rumbling in malicious desire. 

_"You will regret ever challenging me, medic."_


	5. Enraged, Terrified Hunger

He fought to keep his optics open, feeling his internal systems begin to weaken and scream from the massive Energon loss he was suffering from. _Keep it together, Wheeljack. Focus._

Above him, the Decepticon snarled. There was a creaking sound and then a snap, informing the Wrecker that the other had finally broken his bonds.

"Oh, come now, my little Wheeljack." Deathstrike leaned close, all but kneeling in front of the other as he trailed his huge and icy claws down the side of the groaning mech's faceplate. "Do not tell me you cannot take a hit."

Wheeljack coughed, Energon running down the corner of his mouthplates. "You call that a hit? Who taught you how to fight, a youngling?" 

The assassin was quiet for a moment, and Wheeljack looked up through hazy optics to see two narrowed black and red optics glaring down at him. In such close proximity, Wheeljack was slightly shocked at how _big_ the Decepticon was. He easily had ten, possibly eleven feet on him. But then again, the Decepticons always somehow managed to make the Autobots look and feel small, whether in the physical or mental sense.

The Wrecker had to bite back a groan of pain as five clawed digits dug into the armor of his shoulder panel, forcing him to his pedes. Momentarily disoriented, the white Autobot stumbled, only to be roughly righted by two icy cold servos and slammed into the nearest wall. He cried out as the force made more Energon pour from his drying wound, the hot liquid rushing from the injured site and hissing as it made contact with the cold, harsh, and unforgiving sterile metal floor.

"I would watch that tone of yours, Autobot. You have no idea what I am capable of." Deathstrike was snarling at him, and despite the fact that his audio receptors were glitching, Wheeljack could understand every word the Decepticon was saying; the other was using backlash telepathy to make the words all the more chilling.

 "I clearly know what you are capable of, Deathstrike," Wheeljack hissed back, narrowing his flickering ice-cold optics. "You gloat so much that I can't seem to get it out of my helm."

"You dare say that I gloat?" Deathstrike bared his lengthening dentia, looming close as his optics flashed insanely bright. In a flash, he forced his claws into the plating of the other's shoulder panel, tearing it away with a sickening screech of shredding circuitry and Energon lines. Wheeljack cried out at the sudden pain, clenching his dentia as Deathstrike glared at him with sadistic amusement glinting in his feral optics. Wheeljack could not help but stare in disgust and horror as the Decepticon assassin brought the shredded armor to his mouthplates and traced his glossa over it, lapping at the hot Energon dripping from the white-painted metal. 

Deathstrike grinned, that horrible, spark-twisting mockery of a grin that sent chills down the spinal components of even the strongest and cold-sparked of warriors. Moving to invade the Wrecker's personal space even more, Wheeljack had to fend off a shudder as the assassin's ice-cold glossa trailed over the side of his faceplate. Fury welled up inside his spark, threatening to overwhelm as he fought against his instincts to rip the 'Con's optics out.

 "If I could have my way with you," the Decepticon hissed, raking his claws through the gashes on Wheeljack's shoulder panel, "You would be pinned down, restrained with binding even your precious _Prime_ could not break. You would lay there, wondering, _fearing_ what I would do to you. You would be shaking in your armor, dreading what was to come." The assassin chuckled darkly, shaking his helm. "But..." The enormous and deadly claws trailed down the Autobot's chest armor, stopping directly above the protective layers of refined metal covering the other's spark. "I will spare you the trouble of imagining that." He raised his servo, claws lengthening to dangerous points.

Before he could strike, however, Wheeljack brought his leg up and kicked with all of his might, smothering a weak but satisfied grin as the Decepticon slid back a few feet. The Wrecker raised his fists, ready to defend himself. He circled the panting Decepticon, ignoring the fact that another bout of harsh coughing had racked the other's frame even though he waited for the other to regain his bearings.

When he had settled, the assassin straightened and glared down at him, wings fanning the air in short and jerking movements. Baring his elongated dentia, which seemed to be glistening with some sort of oral lubricant or poison (which was more likely), Deathstrike growled at the warrior. "You will regret doing that." 

"Yeah, well..." Wheeljack rolled his shoulders, joints and hydraulic lines cracking back into place with an audible hiss. "You 'Cons sure seem to like saying that."

Deathstrike narrowed his blazing optics, wings twitching as his claws flexed. "What can we say?" His accent thickened without warning as he ran his glossa over his extended fangs. "We like to make our enemies _tremble."_ Moving in a sudden flash, Wheeljack was knocked back by an unseen force - the assassin's telepathy, if his dark and insane laughter was anything to go by.

"You _will_ be trembling, my dear Wheeljack," Deathstrike growled, flaring his wings wide, "And you will _beg for your life."_

"Fat chance, 'Con," the Wrecker gasped, processor swimming with pain and vertigo from the force restraining him and the massive amount of Energon he was steadily losing.

 Deathstrike's hellish optics were slits as he watched the other with a venomous glare. The force holding the Wrecker against the wall tightened its ruthless grasp, and the telltale creak of warping and snapping armor filled the room. Wheeljack gasped, futilely attempting to cycle air through his rapidly overheating frame, feeling his armor warp and tear as it dug mercilessly into the weaker but semi-strong protoform beneath it. Hissing in slight pain as the fresh Energon mingled with the older fluids drying on his battered frame, he continued to glare at the assassin, who stared back with a sort of innocent yet sadistic curiosity.

"Oh, did I hurt you?" Deathstrike snarled softly, moving closer as he eyed the fresh lifeblood with a feral hunger. Wheeljack bared his own dentia as the assassin came olfactory-to-olfactory with him, his tanks churning as he caught the scent of his own Energon on the other's cold and venomous ventilations. It was eerily quiet as the two stared at each other, one with cautious fury and the other with insane hunger and amusement.

The swordsmech flinched as razor points grazed over his neck cabling, their barely concealed threat looming dangerously close.

"Mmm..." The Decepticon assassin rumbled deeply, his powerful engines growling and shaking the other to the infrastructure. "You have no idea how enticing you smell at the moment." The claws trailed down the Seeker's prize.

Wheeljack took in a sharp cycle of air as the Decepticon's talons tore into the side of his faceplate, drawing even more Energon. He narrowed his optics as he watched the other slowly lick the lifeblood from his talons.

"Oh, my dear Wheeljack..."

Deathstrike was looming now, and Wheeljack's processor was swimming. The telltale whir of optical machinery filled the air, one of the many results of the swordsmech's Energon deficiency.

He cried out in pain as the assassin shoved his claws into the open wound on his shoulder panel, cringing as the other twisted the talons in the circuitry, much like he had when inflicting his first wound.

Deathstrike chuckled darkly, a sound filled with unrestrained hunger and desire. Wheeljack shuttered his optics as the fangs traced over the wound, his Energon-curdling scream echoing in his audio receptors as the burning and elongated dentia plunged deep into the open circuitry. His vocalizer sputtered with static as he futilely attempted to curse at the other.

The assassin hissed lowly, rearing back and running his glossa over his bloodstained dentia. "I am sorry." His voice was a sickening croon filled with mock apology. "I cannot seem to understand you." Suddenly he was dangerously close, his fangs now tracing over the Wrecker's mouthplates. "Perhaps a little louder?"

Wheeljack's optics widened as the assassin ran his fangs over his own mouth, and with an attempt at a vicious growl he initiated the protocols to release his battle mask.

Deathstrike sensed the movement and then his claws were digging painfully into the seams on the sides of the swordsmech's faceplate. "Oh, no, _Wrecker."_ An icy sensation began to spread around the area where the talons were tearing into the metal of Wheeljack's faceplate, and the Wrecker shuddered as much as he could with the force still restraining him. "We cannot have that." Grip tightening without warning, the assassin dug in deep and pulled, tearing the mask away with a feral grin. Wheeljack gave a static-laced scream as the towering mech above him took the shredded remains of the mask and shoved it into his side, twisting it into the already extremely damaged circuitry and wiring.

_"You pit-bound...demented..."_ The Wrecker managed to force out those few painful words out, snarling at the insane Decepticon.

"Compliments will get you nowhere, Autobot." Deathstrike growled at him, narrowing his optics. His free servo slunk down and collected the Energon that pooled from the other's newly acquired wounds. Wheeljack fought against the sudden need to purge his tanks as the Decepticon devoured the lifeblood he had collected. 

The world became startlingly hazy and the terrifying image of the Decepticon assassin swam before him. Not before, however, Wheeljack noticed the other's optics blazing insanely bright.

_Wheeljack..._

Stay awake. You are stronger than this. This pile of mismatched scrap is nothing compared to what you have been through the past vorns!

_My dear Wheeljack..._

_No, can't...focus...need to...rest..._

_No, no, no! Stay awake! Fight this! Be strong! For Bulkhead! For Miko!_

  _Sorry. Just can't...too...weak...gotta recharge..._

 The last thing he heard before falling into stasis was the insane and rumbling laughter of the insane Decepticon assassin known as Deathstrike.


End file.
